by S. T. Boston
“Time is running out, Mr. Becker,” shouted Asag. “You have ten seconds, then I'm coming for you!”
“Give me your gun,” Sam demanded, holding his hand out.
“I will do no such thing, you're my prisoner—”
“Cut that shit, we both know we're way beyond that now.” Sam thrust out his hand in a stabbing motion. “And I hope you remember how to fly a plane.” The inspector stared blankly at the idling aircraft, and Sam felt sorry for him. He'd been in a similar situation at one time, and there was no easy way to get your head around it. Slower than Sam liked, Ackhart withdrew his gun from the holster and handed it over reluctantly. He checked the magazine, testing the weighty black weapon in his hand before flicking off the safety.
“You really think we can take that plane?” There was no hiding the doubt in Ackhart's voice.
Sam didn't blame him, Buer had been hard enough to take out – hell, he'd failed to kill him. It was a lucky shot from Adam which finally put the bastard down, and now they were facing two of the fuckers, plus whoever was piloting the King Air. A second shot slammed through the Mégane, the bullet slamming through the car, exiting just above the rear wheel arch, spraying a deadly hail of shrapnel. They needed to move.
“On my mark,” mouthed Sam, trying to be reassuring when he looked into the wide, frightened eyes of the police inspector.
“Three, two, one – MARK!” Sam grabbed his new partner and made a run for it.
* * *
Unquenchable fury burned deep inside Asag's gut as he knelt beside the crumpled body of his brother. He'd expected Namtar would dive out of the way at the last moment, was horrified when he'd stayed frozen to the spot and gotten tossed into the air like a piece of litter thrown from a car window
“I would suggest you give up, Mr. Becker!” he shouted again, his voice an angry snarl. He glanced briefly at Namtar, who was improving by the second, but it would still be some time before he was fully functional after being hit so hard. The Gift was a wondrous thing, but severe injuries took longer to recover from, head injuries taking days if critical enough. Thankfully it looked to be Namtar's torso which had taken the brunt of the impact from both the car and the ground.
Asag squeezed off another round and watched it slam into the car with a metallic ping. With any luck, the bullet would pass right through the rusty old car and take one of them out. He was under strict instructions to take Becker alive, but right now he wanted nothing more than to rip Sam Becker's head off his shoulders with his bare hands. If it was a choice between Becker escaping and being killed here and now, it would be the second option – he would face the wrath of Asmodeous when the time came. Eyes fixed on the old silver car, he watched with the nervous excitement of a cat stalking a mouse, ready to spring into action. Becker sprang from behind the front of the car, pulling the one who'd come to his aid behind him. Asag's rage increased at the sight of the police inspector, desperately trying to keep up with Becker, who was out of the handcuffs and covering the distance to the hangar swiftly. Asag stood up and raised his gun. Before he had time to fire, Becker's arm reached out, and a muzzle flash confirmed he now had a gun. Asag hit the deck, firing two rounds blindly. Becker's shot missed, and to Asag's disgust, so did his. Becker and the inspector were now closing in on the hangar, their backs to him. Rolling onto his side, Asag squeezed off another round, this one timed and aimed better. The shot found Becker's shoulder, throwing him forward, slamming his body into the corrugated side of the hangar. Asag shot to his feet and pounded across the apron, closing fast as his massive legs ate up the tarmac. He raised the gun, fixing it on the inspector this time. Becker had gotten back on his feet, hand on a small access door. Doing his best to aim, Asag fired again.
* * *
The bullet hammered into Sam's shoulder. The weapon which had fired the slug was powerful, Sam felt as if he'd been hit by a train. Helplessly, his body fell forward, and just before he slammed into the side of the hangar he heard the slug hit the metal. Thankfully, it had passed right through his body. It wasn't the first time he'd taken a bullet and in full survival mode, he didn't let it slow him down – if he did they were both dead. Getting back to his feet he turned to see Asag closing on them, his face contorted with fury as he raised the gun again. Sam gripped the freezing cold aluminium handle, praying the door was unlocked as he pumped it down. Another shot rang out through the cold night air. Instinctively he ducked, pulling Ackhart with him. As they fell the door swung inward, the momentum of their bodies sending them reeling across the threshold. Sam's shoulder radiated with pain when his body hit the floor, and looking back through the doorway he saw Asag, now less than fifteen meters away and closing. When the door swung back he kicked it shut, thankful when it found the latch and closed. It would only buy them a second or two but when you were rolling the dice between death and survival, those few seconds counted.
“You've been shot,” panted Ackhart as Sam pulled him to his feet, almost wrenching his right arm from its socket. Ackhart was gulping in air, wheezing like a set of broken bagpipes.
“No time to worry about it now,” replied Sam, heading deeper into the hangar. After the brightly flood-lit apron, the hangar seemed as black as sack-cloth. “It hurts like hell, but in a few minutes, it will be right as rain.” Sam took them left, away from the door and Asag's line of sight. A few seconds later he heard the hangar door fly open, smashing back against the wall before swinging shut.
“We need to get to that plane,” Sam whispered. He guided Ackhart toward the wall where the door was. He'd felt the handle move upward slightly when he'd flung it open, and it gave him an idea. It was a long shot but worth a try.
“Give yourself up NOW, Becker!” Asag shouted, his voice echoing hellishly inside the cavernous hangar. “If you do, I'll make your deaths swift!” A shiver snaked up Sam's spine, there was an unhinged note in Asag's voice which told Sam he and Ackhart were both dead men if they were caught. Even if they did escape the hanger, there was the not insignificant problem of Namtar, who by this time, might be regenerated and fighting fit again.
One hand stretched in front of him, the inspector holding onto his belt, and with the gun in his other hand, Sam crept toward the wall, praying his feet wouldn't find an abandoned wrench or a discarded paint tin. Any noise would surely give them away; this was a dangerous game of hide and go seek. Sam didn't think they'd gone too far into the hangar, and after shuffling for what seemed like miles in the pitch-black, his outstretched hand eventually found the cool metal wall. The darkness was both his best friend and his enemy. With every painstaking second, he expected Asag's hand to grasp hold of him like a prize. Somewhere off to his right he caught the brief sound of heels on concrete. Asag was in here, and he wasn't far away. Heart hammering in his chest, his shoulder on fire, and Ackhart's laboured breathing sounding like a steam train in his ear Sam felt his way along the wall, praying he'd locate the handle before Asag found them.
“I can hear you, Becker. I can hear both of you,” came Asag's torturous voice.
Resisting the urge to shout a string of obscenities back, Sam sighed inwardly with relief when his hand found the door frame, then the handle.
“I'm going to open the door,” he whispered as quietly as he could to Ackhart. “Follow me out as quickly as you can.” There was no reply, but Sam imagined the inspector nodding his head eagerly in the darkness. Wrapping his hand around the cool metal, he mentally counted to three and went for it.
* * *
Asag paused in the frustrating darkness, trying to distinguish anything, but even his eyes, used to the gloom of Sheol's subterranean chambers, couldn't see in the darkness enveloping the hangar. He cursed the door for swinging shut on him, cursed himself for not opening it again, but he hadn't wanted to frame himself in light, giving Becker a clean shot. He listened carefully; there was the definite sound of shuffling coming from his right. He raised the gun, trying to use his hearing to aim, but it was an impossible task. Gritting his teet
h in frustration he spun around on the spot, trying to decide on his next move. As he turned a single sound echoed through the hangar, which he recognized as coming from the door. In an instant, Becker and the inspector were framed in light so bright, Asag inadvertently looked away, losing any chance he had of taking a shot. As the door swung shut he broke into a run, watching the light reced into a small bead around the frame. As it closed, he heard Becker slam the handle up. Asag raised his gun and fired, BANG, BANG, BANG – the sound echoed around the building, rebounding off the walls. The rounds tore through the thin aluminium wall of the hangar, and streams of light, resembling three small torch beams instantly cut their way through the darkness. Asag's body slammed into the hangar door, right where the shots had carved their way through the thin metal. He clawed at the handle but it wouldn't budge.
The door was locked.
* * *
Sam slammed the hangar door shut, throwing his body against the corrugated metal as he thrust the handle up, praying it would lock, and thrilled when it did. Thanking his lucky stars, he pulled the inspector to the right, just as three rounds punctured the door. Sam heard them whizz past on a trajectory to nowhere in particular. The door wouldn't hold Asag for long, Sam had to get them to the plane, deal with whoever was piloting the damn thing and then hope Ackhart could get his shit together enough to fly them both the hell out of Dodge. It was a long shot, but he'd survived longer shots in the past. He felt the inspector shake off his grasp; turning, he saw Ackhart frozen to the spot, gawping at the figure of Namtar who was picking up his rapidly-healing body from the ground and staring at them, anger burning in his otherwise stone-cold eyes.
“Impossible,” Ackhart muttered as Sam reached out and grabbed his dishevelled shirt. As he did, the hangar door behind them shook violently, Asag slamming his body into the thin panel repeatedly. Sam released his grip on Ackhart and levelled the gun at the door, aiming where he guessed Asag's head would be. He discharged four rounds, grouping them close together. The banging immediately ceased; either Asag'd taken a head shot and was out of the game, or he was badly injured. Either way, it had bought them enough time, now they just had Namtar to get through. He was still some way off, lolloping toward them, his legs still not fully functional.
“I told you they were hard bastards to kill!” yelled Sam, grabbing Ackhart and shoving him toward the plane. Namtar was making the best ground he could on his damaged legs, but he looked like a zombie from some low-budget, Eighties B-movie. “Can you fly the plane?”
“I d— don't know,” stammered Ackhart. “It's been many years.”
“A yes or no is all I need,” Sam shouted.
“Oui, yes, I believe I can.” Sam could see doubt etched on Ackhart's face, and the closer they got to the plane, the more his doubt grew. Sam very much doubted the inspector's flying hours were in order, but he had a hell of a lot better chance of not fucking it up than Sam did.
“They have a pilot on the plane,” said Sam when he reached the small craft. “I don't know if he's a charter, or one of their own.” Sam turned to check on Namtar's progress, the man's legs had lost their zombie-like movements, and now he was heading their way with greater fluidity. Sam raised the gun; Namtar was still a way off and it would be a lucky shot, but he fired, and as expected, missed. Namtar stumbled to the right, guessing which way to move to avoid the shot. Not wanting to waste a second bullet, Sam climbed into the fuselage. Sitting in the pilot's seat was a lone male, his dark hair spiked up at the front with far too much product.
“I'm just being paid to fly,” he said desperately, turning in his chair.
“Get your fucking hands in the air!” cried Sam, training the gun on the pilot's head.
“Please, don't shoot!” the pilot begged. He started to raise his hands, and Sam saw the bastard had a pistol, his finger on the trigger, ready to let one fly. Instinct took over and Sam fired, but not before the pilot got a round off.
It missed Sam but punched deep into Ackhart's gut, knocking him back against the fuselage door and making him scream in pain. Sam grabbed at him, his fingers gaining purchase on his belt loop and preventing him from falling out of the plane and onto the tarmac.
Turning his attention to the pilot he saw the guy's body, slumped over the plane's instrument panel. He was dead, Sam's single bullet right on target, just a painstaking fraction of a second too late.
Sam reached past Ackhart, who was clawing frantically at the circular pool of blood spreading out like an incoming tide on his shirt, to grasp the door and slam it shut.
“How bad is it?” he asked, dropping to his knees and pulling Ackhart's shirt away from the wound.
“Hurts like hell,” winced Ackhart. “I should have worn my vest.” He looked at Sam with sad, regretful eyes.
“Can you still get us in the air?” Sam hated asking the question. The wound was in Ackhart's stomach; it would hurt like crazy, and without the right medical attention he was doomed.
“I think so,” he smiled, but he looked a little crazed.
Sam reached for the dead pilot and pulled his limp, heavy body over the back of the seat and deposited him into a luxurious cream leather chair.
Wincing with pain, Ackhart climbed into the pilot's seat, and Sam took the co-pilot's position, hating the sensation of the cramped cockpit. It wasn't much bigger than the front of an average family car.
Not bothering with pre-flight checks, Ackhart grabbed the throttle and punched it forward. The small eight seater craft shot away from its parked position. Namtar was in front of them, closing ground, the gun raised in his meaty hand. “Duck!” Sam screamed when Namtar discharged the weapon. Instinctively, they both stooped low, using the instrument panel for cover. The sudden movement made Ackhart scream in pain and his foot hit the left rudder pedal, sending the small plane lurching to the left as the shot pinged off the cockpit window. It cracked, creating a spider's web of lines, but it held. The sudden turn of the King Air made Namtar dive to the ground to avoid the deadly, spinning propeller, which narrowly missed his head.
Sitting back up Ackhart grabbed the yoke, and using the pedals steered the plane back on course. With no radio and no idea if he was about to enter the single runway as another plane was landing, he careered onto the long ribbon of tarmac. Two more shots pinged off the rear of the fuselage, if they found the right spot they'd prove fatal, causing the craft to crash before it even got off the ground. With no time to check, Ackhart threw the throttle fully open. The twin engines sang with delight as they received a blast of aviation fuel. The small plane built up speed quickly, bouncing down the runway. When they hit eighty knots, Ackhart pulled back on the yoke. The nose lifted and hung in the air for a split second, as if the plane was deciding whether to fly or not.
* * *
“Fly, fly, fly,” Ackhart begged, his head spinning from loss of blood. He glanced at Sam, who had hold of the yoke on his side of the cockpit, helping Ackhart pull the craft into the air. There was no time to ask Becker if he'd flown before, he was weak and needed all the help he could get. Then it came, a feeling which Ackhart hadn't experienced in over twenty years, when the King Air lifted gingerly into the air. Reaching forward he hit the landing gear tab, folding the wheels up into the wings, just beneath the engines. He put them on the steepest ascent he dared, being careful not to stall the engine. Satisfied they'd gained enough altitude he banked left, swinging them level with the apron they'd just escaped from.
* * *
Sam peered down at the tarmac and saw Namtar, no bigger than a child's toy soldier, fruitlessly firing his weapon at them. “Yesssss!” cried Sam, thumping his fist against the side of the cockpit. In the moment of euphoria he'd almost forgotten Ackhart. Feeling guilty he glanced at the inspector. His face was pallid and dripping with sweat, the only colour in his complexion the purple and swollen eye Sam had dealt him only an hour ago.
“Where are we going,” the inspector croaked in a voice racked with pain.
“Point us t
oward the English coast.”
“I'm not sure how long I'll be able to fly this thing,” Ackhart admitted through gritted teeth. “I fear I'm going to die with many questions unanswered.”
“You're going to make it,” lied Sam. He'd used a similar line on one occasion in Afghanistan, comforting one of his squad who'd strayed off a cleared path and stepped on an IED. “As soon as we reach the south coast we'll land, maybe at Bournemouth, and get you some medical attention.” Deep down, Sam knew the chances of Ackhart making it even that far were slim. He hoped beyond hope that he would, as Sam had no idea how to get the King Air on the ground. One thing at a time Sammy boy, he told himself.
“Well, for your sake, monsieur, I hope I do make it, as I'm guessing you don't know how to land this craft.” Ackhart managed a half-cocked smile and Sam could see it was a façade, hiding a wall of pain. “You weren't lying, were you, monsieur?”
“No,” said Sam bluntly.
“Que Dieu nous aide,” muttered the inspector.
“I'm sorry?”
“I said, God help us, Monsieur Becker. God help us.”
* * *
Namtar watched as the King Air banked around the airfield, seemingly mocking him. They were out of range, but he fired until the gun clicked empty, then threw the weapon across the apron in frustration. Eyes fixed on the blinking red tailfin he stood, smouldering in anger and watching until it vanished into the early morning darkness. Shoulders slumped, he strode across to the hangar to reach his brother. As he approached, dread swept Namtar's ancient body – there was no sound coming from inside. He noticed the four closely grouped holes decorating the top of the door with mounting horror. Grasping the handle, he tried the door, discovering it was still locked. Cursing himself for wasting his bullets, he grasped the cold handle and in a mixture of rage and anxiety, ripped the door open. It gave easily in his adrenalin-fuelled rage, and when it swung open his worst fears came to fruition. Asag's body moved with the momentum of the door, spilling out over the threshold. Two of the rounds had torn the side of his skull away, just above his right ear, while the other two rounds had torn open his throat. The two headshots had killed him, instantly shutting down the tiny nanobot maintainers as the electrical signals in his brain died.